


Skull Kid

by amidtheflowers



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Coffeeshop AU, F/M, Slight Canon Divergence, has never been so morbid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-05-29 01:07:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6352840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amidtheflowers/pseuds/amidtheflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate universe where Karen decides to work part-time at a coffee shop after the Union Allied fiasco and Fisk's arrest. Serving The Punisher was never on the agenda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coffee Black

**Author's Note:**

> I've taken it upon myself to write a coffeeshop AU for these two and I regret nothing. You'd think it'd be fluffier but, alas, it's Karen and Frank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN 2017: This fic is short, and just simply up with what happens in canon. Originally there was meant to be more but I know this fic is as far as it will get, so I will stop it at 2 chapters. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! x

Skull Kid

 

-:-

 

**Chapter One: Coffee Black**

 

-:-

 

She sees him again that night.

“Skull kid is back.”

Karen’s hands pause over the French press, glancing up. In the corner of the café, hidden behind a ratty baseball cap and a swathe of shadows, is a regular—a regular who started showing up three weeks ago, each time sporting a different cap and an even larger bruise on his face. It’s what made Jeck and Karen coin the nickname, betting on where a new bruise would turn up—today it is a purple blotch under his jaw.

Jeck grimaces and wipes down the counter. “It’s your turn.”

She sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. “He makes me feel uncomfortable.”

“It’s Hell’s Kitchen. My _barber_ makes me uncomfortable.”

Pursing her lips, Karen picks up the notepad and slides the pencil from her ear. She glances at the corner of the café where he sits and inhales deeply before heading over to him.

The click of her heels causes his head to incline just slightly, aware of her approach. His face becomes clearer the closer she walks to him and a wave of nervousness hits her at just how many wounds he has. It’s very same she felt during Union Allied, the same when seven shots burst from the end of a gun in her hands—the haunted self-awareness that took six months to abate, back when she was convinced someone would find out and she would turn the corner and see the end of a gun.

After The Incident and Wilson Fisk’s arrest, Karen forced herself to work somewhere else— someplace _away_ from the cases at Nelson and Murdock. Partly it was to get perspective, to force herself around that which terrifies her, but another part was to make actually earn an income. She is grateful to Foggy and Matt for giving her a place in their practice, yet…yet the office is sometimes too dim and too quiet, too many files ticked away with splatters of phantom blood she cannot make herself sift through.  

Karen stops at his table and straightens her shoulders. “What can I get for you today?”

The man does not look up. “Coffee. Black.”

His voice is rasp and raw, his hands clasped loosely atop the table. Even his knuckles have purple and green bruises peppered down his fingers, some parts of the flesh tight with healing scabs. They look fresh. Karen wonders if the guy at the other end of those fists looked worse.

She swallows. “Anything else?”

He says nothing. Karen turns away and heads back to the counter where Jeck has been watching silently.

“So?”

Karen puts down the notepad, looking at Jeck calmly. “Under the jaw and more than ten on his hands.”

Jeck whistles low. Despite his humor, he looks at Karen seriously. “In and out, Karen. The less we know about him, the better.”

“I can take care of myself, Jeck.” She gives him a firm glare before grabbing a coffee pot and a large mug, striding back to his table as she pours the coffee. He doesn’t look up when she places the mug in front of him.

“Enjoy,” she smiles a slight smile he never sees.

As she turns around she hears him say, “Ma’am.”

Karen stops. He’s looking at her. His face is swollen and his eyes are tiny pinpricks of light amongst the shadow of his cap.

“Keep it coming.”

Karen nods slowly, then leaves.

 

**-:-**

It reaches the point where Karen doesn’t bother trying to alternate with Jeck on who will serve Skull Kid at night. Karen can spot him instantly when he walks in now, catching the heavy footfalls that are distinctly leather with the faint smell of rust and ash wafting with his every stride. She pours the coffee without asking and sets it on his table before he can even lift his head to grunt out the order. She doesn’t know how it started or why she does it. She doesn’t know why his punctuality and curt nods give her a sense of security she didn’t know she wanted. It’s all part of a routine, a functional, stepwise balance that happens only after ten o’clock at night.

She doesn’t notice his glances at all four corners of the café before he walks in. She doesn’t notice how his eyes dart to the back room underneath his cap. And she never knows when he leaves—all that ever remains is an empty cup and a crisp twenty.

When he walks in the night Matt disappears again, she notices he’s his face is matted with drying blood and he’s stiffer than normal (if you could call any of this _normal_ ). She grabs the mug and the coffee pot and heads to him straight away.

“Rough night?” she asks, pouring the coffee.

He chuckles for the first time, but it gurgles into a cough. “Something like that.”

“Wow,” Karen says, impressed. “A laugh and a sentence. It’s my lucky day.”

What the hell is she doing? A flutter of nervousness spindles down her spine when she remembers she absolutely does not know him at all. Regular coffee-drinkers in the middle of the night wearing more bruises than a professional boxer—and in _Hell’s Kitchen_ —does not equate to flirting with a potential criminal. (Because if not that, what else could he be?)

But then his lips twitch in a half-smile, and she can’t help but wonder if it is time to toe the neat boundary she’s set for herself. Karen bites her lip and sets the coffee pot down. He glances at her.

“On the house,” she explains. “I think you’ve earned it.”

He looks down, shaking his head slightly. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Karen,” she replies, and Skull Kid stares at her. “It’s Karen.”

**-:-**

Three days later, he doesn’t show.

Karen doesn’t know why she’s perturbed by it. She tries not to think about it, but it’s always there simmering in the back of her mind. In a way she’s oddly angry at him for breaking the routine, for disrupting their unspoken understanding. But it is silly of her to think that, and she forces herself to shake the thought away. After all, he was only a customer. She couldn’t have expected him to come to the café forever.

“Can you take the trash out in the back?” Jeck asks as he furiously works on four coffees at once. “I know it’s early but we’re going through a lot of the material tonight and there’s no room on the floor.”

“Yeah,” Karen wipes her hands on her apron. She hefts four bags and stumbles to the back door, pushing it open with the help of her leg and shoulders.

As the door creaks open she hears panting and faint whimpering. Karen freezes, her throat swallowing a sound of surprise. The door swings fully open and by the dumpsters she sees two grey figures, one crumpled to the floor and the other a darkened silhouette standing erect…a gun pointed at the cowering figure’s head.

It happens faster than she’s able to comprehend—the door clambers against the brick wall and a deafening shot fires from the end of the gun. The man goes limp, the wet sound of blood splattering against the dumpster. Smoke meanders from the tip of the gun. The man holding it looks at her.

Karen’s arms shake violently and she drops the garbage bags, desperately stumbling away. He’s at her in a second and clamping a hand around her mouth, swallowing the scream retching from her throat and catching her fighting arms—her legs kick and flail and she bites his hand, earning a gruff curse.

_I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t want to die—_

Tears fall from her eyes and she realizes she will never escape. Death will follow her so long as Wesley remains dead, she will never not be afraid, she will never not be in danger, and today she will never breathe again. She has seen too much.

“Karen. Stop.”

The voice is familiar.

Of course it is. She only heard it every single day.

Karen slowly looks up at him.

He looks so different. He looks calm, steady. There isn’t a single new wound on him. The other man clearly didn’t put up much of a fight.

The other man. Karen’s eyes wander to the dead man crumpled by the dumpster. She shudders wildly and nearly gags when she sees how parts of his brain are now enjoining with the filth of the garbage. He’s wearing the same work clothes as she is…she can make out the nametag.

“My boss,” she whispers hoarsely, feeling sick. “Y-you killed my boss.”

“Yes.” His reply is curt. He’s still holding onto her, but no longer so tightly. She never even noticed when he managed to close the door.

“You’re going to kill me.”

He doesn’t reply. She starts crying again, writhing away from him and failing.

“You weren’t supposed to come out.”

Karen stills. He’s staring at the spot where he shot her boss. “Twelve o’clock. That’s when you come out to throw the trash.” He shakes his head, as if berating himself. “You weren’t supposed to see this.”

Karen swallows thickly, a sickened sensation in her stomach. She should be vomiting any time now, but what comes from her mouth instead is a question. “Is that what you’ve been doing? The last four weeks, you’ve been watching us?”

Skull Kid—no. The killer. He glances at her and looks away, nodding. “Yeah.”

Karen closes her eyes. It was done now. It was over. She’s seen too much and he knows it too. She considers begging. People who shoot point-blank at someone’s head wouldn’t listen to begging, though. And she’s seen too much.

He watches her as she thinks. He stiffens when the fight leaves her body, resigned. Accepting.

“Just—”

“There’s a locked drawer in his office,” he starts, and Karen looks at him in surprise. He won’t look at her, he won’t look at anything—his head darts back and forth, as if mentally putting the pieces together. “He opens it at night, before twelve. There’s flash drives in ‘em, dozens. A new file every week. A business in a business.”

“What?” Karen blurts, scowling.

“You open it, it’s encrypted. The kinda shit I hate, you know, so it takes a while to see what’s there.” He stares right at her, as if looking through her. Karen stops breathing. “Asshole was a child pornographer. New shit every week, homemade. This—this _shit head,_ ” he looks derisively at the drying corpse by the dumpster, “would film it in his basement. Distributed it in his office. Most of it was with himself.”

Bile rises in Karen’s throat. His fingers tighten around her arms. “People like him need to die.”

Karen glances back at the corpse. “So you killed him.”

He nods. “He deserved to die. Red, he—he mighta caught him. Taped a bag with the flash drives to his ass when dumping him in front of the NYPD. He woulda been in jail for ten, fifteen. Then he’d be out. You think that kind of shit deserves that chance to go at it again?”

She thinks briefly on who Red is but makes the connection— _Daredevil_.

Threads of information weave in her mind, the pieces falling together. The story. The fact that she was still alive.

“You’re who they’re talking about,” she looks at him. He stares back. “The one executing the cartels, the Irish mob….The Punisher.”

He lets go. Karen stumbles back, rubbing her arms. He’s tucking his gun away and jams a worn baseball cap over his head. “You don’t need to be afraid. You won’t see me ever again.” He glances at the body. “You can call the cops. Tell ‘em who did it. Don’t make a difference to me.”

Karen can only watch as he turns away, her heart thundering in her chest. He turns his head slightly in her direction. “Thank you for the coffee, ma’am.”

He’s gone. Karen fumbles for the door and dials the police. She never does vomit.


	2. Caramel Latte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your incredible feedback! Special thank you to my wonderful and talented beta [mechanical_orange](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mechanical_Orange/pseuds/Mechanical_Orange), who's written a phenomenal post-s2 Kastle fic which you should definitely read if you haven't already.

**Chapter Two: Caramel Latte**

**-:-**

“Have you heard from Karen yet?” Foggy asks Matt as they stop at the door to Nelson and Murdock. Matt slides his hand from Foggy’s bicep and takes rear of his cane, folding it with a grim frown.

“Not since yesterday morning,” he says quietly.

“Did you…you know.” Foggy tilts his head. “ _You know_. Check on her?”

Matt presses his lips together. “I was…occupied. I wouldn’t worry, though.”

“Wouldn’t worry? She saw someone get shot in an alley!” Foggy unlocks the door, throwing it open loudly as he unslings the leather bag from his shoulder. “What’s even the point if— _shit!_ ” he freezes when he sees Karen at her desk, biting her lip as she works on the desktop.

Foggy glances at Matt and sours, as if saying, _you knew she was here._ Matt shrugs.

“Karen—hey, we were just talking about you,” Foggy drops his bag and goes to her. She smiles a little and stands, welcoming the hug he engulfs her in. Matt lingers for a moment before hugging her briefly. “You shouldn’t have come in today, not after last night.”

“It’s fine,” Karen shakes her head, biting her lower lip as she glances back at the computer. “I—I need this. Keep myself occupied, not break routine just because of one asshole.”

“An asshole that could’ve killed you,” Foggy says incredulously. “Seriously, you need time off. And I know what you’re gonna say but would you at least _consider_ working here full-time? You’re way too qualified to be working as a barista on the side.”

“You can’t pay me, Foggy,” Karen reminds lightly as she sits back down.

“You don’t know that! We’re getting new clientele every day, aren’t we? We’re scraping by. Matt, tell her.”

Karen turns to Matt and he shifts, his glasses flashing red in the dim sunlight as he ducks his head. “I have to agree with Foggy on this. You’d be much safer working here.”

“I can handle myself,” Karen says firmly, turning back to the monitor. “Besides, that guy wasn’t going to hurt me.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Foggy asks, but Matt, in his inexplicable way to see beyond his sight, pauses.

“Do you—do you _know_ who was outside your café last night?” Matt asks. Karen glances away, fiddling with the mouse.

“I might’ve...figured it out.”

“Did you tell the cops?”

Karen presses her lips together and shakes her head. “Look, I—I know I should’ve but I just…I’m not even sure if I’m right.”

“Did you get a look at his face?”

Karen pauses. She can feel Foggy staring at her. “No,” she says quietly.

Matt turns his head a bit as if disappointed. Karen swallows and lifts her chin. “But I know he wasn’t interested in killing me. Which makes me think he must be the same guy who’s been killing the gangs, riling up the underground.”

“What? Okay, Karen,” Foggy’s shaking his head and pressing his fingers to his temple. “One thing at a time. Let’s just—focus on our clients. We can get into this psycho dumpster murderer shit at Josie’s.”

**-:-**

Grotto’s asleep with wires taped to his skin and a monitor beeping at the corner of his bed. Karen’s still in yesterday’s skirt and the bare remnants of her foundation are now letting the sprinkle of freckles show through on her face. Her eyes feel heavy but her mind is alert. She’s felt this before, years ago...and the thought makes her tired.

The café was shut down the moment the NYPD took away her boss’s body in a bag—a murder and a child pornography den didn’t make much for good business, and Karen is relieved to never have a reason walk down that street again. But now she must add another thing to the list of shit she has to get through, and Karen really is growing weary of job interviews.

She watches Grotto inhale deeply as she bites her thumbnail. He’s next. She knows it—knew it the moment he cornered them at Josie’s. She had known the Kitchen Irish were eliminated but she never anticipated a survivor would come to Nelson and Murdock for help; then again, their pedagogical motto was defending the underrepresented and the innocent, but where exactly Grotto falls on that scale Karen does not know.

There is a reason Skull Kid targets Grotto, one she almost doesn’t want to contest. But why go after someone so low on the totem pole of scumbaggery? From what Grotto told them, he’s the guy who did the scut work for the mob…it makes no sense why his life has such a heavy price.

 _There’s a reason_ , her mind whispers. Karen grits her teeth.

She’s distracted when Grotto lurches awake, shifting and pulling at the wires. “Shh—you’ve got multiple lacerations, okay,” Karen jumps from her seat and holds out her hands, forcing him to lie back down. “The doctors said—”

“No, no—!”

“The cut is deep,” Karen snaps, staring at Grotto firmly. “You waited too long to tend to your injuries. You need to stay put if you don’t want to bleed out whatever blood you have left in you.”

“You expect me to lay here and rest while I’ve got a target on my ass?” Grotto shakes his head again but Karen pushes him back down. “That fucker shows up—”

“That fucker won’t know Grotto is here because the only injured Irishman in this hospital right now is my husband Steve,” Karen glares, “who defended my honor in a bar fight and took a couple hits along the way.” Grotto stills. Karen hides a smile, pursing her lips as she resettles on the bed once she’s sure he won’t try to leave.

“That’s a pretty story,” Grotto says quietly, his voice rough. “Go home now. You don’t got the balls for what’s coming.”

A spark of ire ignites inside of her, and Karen narrows her eyes. “Settle down and slide into bed, sweetheart. Because I’m the best chance you’ve got.”

**-:-**

She has no chance in hell.

**-:-**

She doesn’t expect to get the file. But after Skull Kid kills Grotto, and the D.A., more or less, screws over their firm, Karen knows that this is not the end of it. Not for her.

What had been curiosity now turns into blazing fury at having lost—Grotto was by no means a good man, but was it enough to earn an execution?

She knows it is _him_ again, remembers the stalking figure hidden in shadow with a gun propped on his shoulder, remembers the wall exploding by her head and the bullets ricocheting down the stairwell.

And now she needs to know _why._

Karen tucks the file in her bag and heads straight home. The neighbors are yelling again when she reaches her door and she rolls her eyes, pushing the door open.

She settles on the couch, the manila file on her lap. “Okay,” she breathes. “Okay.”

Karen opens the file. Glossy, horrific photos pour out, reds and blues sunken into the paper—a haloed skull with a veritable crack, a police report in thick, black ink, and red—so much red. She feels as if it’s pouring over her skin and running through her hands, dripping until it’s all she can see. Her eyes glass over as she sees faces she knows no longer smile, and a ghost of a man preserved in a photograph. He wears a military uniform in one.

Karen pushes the file away and runs her hands frantically through her hair. She stands and paces a bit, trying to put the pieces together. It was wrong, all of this has to be wrong—

Karen jumps when her phone begins to ring. Grabbing it off the couch, she squints at the familiar number. “Hello?”

“ _Karen Page?”_

“This is she.”

“ _Your first shift starts at six. Come a half-hour early for prep.”_

Karen blinks in surprise. “O-oh, right—I’ll be there by five-thirty.”

The line goes dead and Karen bites her lip. Scooping the papers from the couch, she carefully tucks them back in the manila file but not before pausing over a name atop the police record.

_Frank Castle._

**-:-**

The Coffee Mahal is not nearly as pretentious as the last coffee shop she worked in, but the quality of ingredients is enough for Karen to be intrigued. And like most family-owned cafés with amazing menus, business is painfully slow.

It is fortuitous for Karen, for her mind keeps drifting back to what she’d read in Skull Kid’s file—Frank Castle’s file.

Her hand creeps into her apron pocket. Her fingers skim across the surface, feeling the indent of the ink when her pen had scrawled  Frank’s home address. It would be safer to go tomorrow, in the daylight at the very least, but the cover of nightfall would mask her presence better. And if she wants to investigate properly, it will have to be done tonight.

She doesn’t understand the thrill of emotion at the thought of uncovering the truth, the thud in her heart whenever she’s close to something real. It’s dangerous and if Karen were wiser she would’ve stopped when she felt this at Union Allied—but she’s not, and even after what happened to Ben…she can never stop.

The bell above the door chimes and Karen grabs her notebook, glancing at Laila. Her boss gives a curt nod and Karen straightens, already forming her customer-smile.

She walks around the counter and smiles, “Hello, what can I get for yo—” She stops dead.

He’s staring at her, mirroring her look of perplexity though not exactly—Karen’s mouth is hanging open and has stopped breathing, whereas he…stares.

And turns around, throwing the door open.

“Shit, shit,” Karen jams the notebook in her pocket and runs out. He’s already disappeared and Karen curses again and bolts down to the adjacent alley. She hears the café’s door open and Laila is shouting, but Karen doesn’t think much of it.

She spots him, then—just a few feet away. Ironically, passing by a dumpster.

“Hey!” Karen yells. He doesn’t stop. Karen throws caution to the wind and runs the last few feet, close enough to reach out and grab him. She decides against it (she’s reckless but not _that_ reckless), and instead blurts, “Frank!”

She stops short when he stops, staring down at her. Karen backpedals, her breath stuttering. Purple and red blotches cover the entirety of his face, his left eye swollen and his lip busted.

“Shit,” she whispers.

“You know my name.” He’s still close. Blood rushes to Karen’s face and she’s suddenly realizing _you complete idiot Karen why the hell would you pursue a murderer?_ The terror must show on her face because he’s giving her a look as if she’s an irritating wart.

“Yes.” Karen steadies herself, looking him in the eye. “I do. It wasn’t that hard.”

He nods. “Bully for you, ma’am.” And he turns to leave again.

“I need to talk to you,” Karen says, and he stops again to face her.

“Do you always follow murderers down an alley, ma’am? Shit,” he shakes his head, glancing at a flickering lamppost at the end of the alley. “I blast a guy’s head in front of you and you—what? Want to swap stories? Catch up?”

“I deserve some damn answers,” Karen says heatedly, “and so do you.”

Frank stares at her, going eerily still. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” He leans in, narrowing his eyes. “Get away from this shit, _ma’am._ ”

He’s gone before she can say another word, and there are so many she wants to let escape— _I know about you wife I know about your kids I know about your head I know I know—_

Karen turns around, wipes her hands on her apron, and goes back to the Coffee Mahal.

**-:-**

“Her. I need to talk to her, alone.”

Karen and Foggy stand before Frank, a weary and bruised body upon stark hospital linen. Karen watches him silently, and he stares right back. His eyes have not left her since she shoved the photograph of his family in his face.

“I’ll do it,” Karen says firmly.

**-:-**

Karen waits for Foggy to close the door before turning to Frank. He watches her from the hospital bed, quiet. Waiting.

She walks to his bedside and uncurls her fingers around the Styrofoam mug, placing it at his bedside. He watches her pop the lid open to let the steam out, revealing a swirled pattern of foam at the brim and a sugary scent of caramel wafting from the cream. His lips twitch.

“Now, Mr. Castle,” Karen tilts her head. “Are you ready to swap stories?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please feel free to drop a comment and tell me what you thought!
> 
> I'm also on tumblr: amidtheflowers.tumblr.com where you can watch my slow descent into Kastle misery.


End file.
